of rain and sky
by The Knife
Summary: For all the weight glass can hold, it still breaks.


**1 |** katekyo hitman reborn! © amano akira  
><strong>2 | <strong>i'm so sorry because i don't think i can do anything to redeem 2-year-old writing.

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><p>Rain, relentless and cold, fell heavily on a now-scarcely populated avenue, on the steps of a certain, dimly-lit household and on a different kind of rain, a silver kind, running across the street with naught but his hand covering his head from the bullet drops.<p>

Finally getting to the other side of the street, he got to the gates of the lonely Vongola mansion and ran to the house itself. Closing the large doors behind him, he tried to squeeze some of the rainwater out of his hair and mumbled to himself and the empty foyer all the while, "Tch. Take a fucking walk just to get out of the heat, end up with the fucking rain."

Squalo walked across the foyer and to the stairs, not bothering with the mess he's making on the velvet carpet. He'd clean it up later—or make someone else do it, if he could, but really, what could he do? It's not like he had special rights to boss other people around—he was, after all, just a street urchin-turned-loyal dog. But, he supposed, it didn't matter. He was there for only one man anyway, the man he played pet for.

"And where is that bastard?" Squalo wondered every step of the way to his room. He could just imagine the madman, his unfeeling and rather cruel boss, seated on his dear chair with his feet crossed on the table, hands entwined on his stomach—his slouch of villainy that eventually became an important part of him. Squalo thought of paying the asshole a visit before locking himself up in his room. He could hear it, his voice, that condescending tone spewing out profanity, and there was the occasional inanimate object flying his way—

And as he drew near—

The door was open—

The lights weren't even on—

He walked in—

And the rain fell harder—

"Xanxus?"

And there on the floor amidst the clutter of paper and broken furniture sat the man Squalo admired, shrouded in darkness, feet planted on the floor, head bowed down and buried in his hands. No wineglass thrown, no onslaught from that foul tongue of his. No glare that would kill a man if it could. Not even a glance at his most trusted subordinate. The aura of authority he usually had was gone—as if it was never there.

Who was sitting there in the dark room?

"Xanxus!" Squalo ran and knelt in front of him. All he could hear was mumbling. Hoping to get even the slightest answer, he asked, "Xanxus, what's wrong?"

_This_ was wrong. Xanxus was a man of power, a man who wouldn't show even a trace of weakness, of defeat, and he was violent; anything that got in his way just ceased existing in the next second, anything that might've hinted at vulnerability, he made sure it would be gone. Yet now he was idle, all the rage gone.

Was Squalo wrong about him?

For the first time since he started following Xanxus, Squalo didn't know what to do. He was a man whose purpose was best seen in the heat of battle and not in the cold silence of a man who was having a different kind of battle, an inner one. Knowing he was just another mercenary, a dumb brute, was painful—he had nothing to offer his superior. But he had to try.

"Xanxus, tell me—"

"You don't have to fucking know!"

Squalo winced. But he wanted to know. He wanted to know what made such a tall building crumble to dust, what finally made the devil a man. He looked away. At his feet, he saw a crumpled piece of paper. He opened the wrinkled page—it seemed like it was ripped off a notebook—and read it.

As his eyes widened at the note, Xanxus buried his head deeper into his arms.

"Xanxus," Squalo started, unsure of what to say, and the shock just made it worse, "who cares if you aren't his son? It... it doesn't change a thing! The fact that Vongola Nono even took you in... and I'd still—"

"I don't want your fucking sympathy, trash!"

Squalo bit his lower lip to refrain from saying something else—anything at all—that might upset Xanxus more. It was best to leave the broken man alone—that was just how either of them dealt with their problems: in solitude and silence—but this time, he didn't. He didn't walk out of the room to leave Xanxus to his constitutions. Instead, his shaking hands slowly reached the man in front of him, and to his surprise, Xanxus clung to him and buried his head in the younger man's chest. Squalo put his arms around him.

And he realized he had a piece of glass in his arms—the same ones that get thrown at his face. Fragile, fragile glass. For all the weight it could hold, it still wears out, still has a breaking point. It still has a limit.

"I'd... I'd never leave you over something like that."

A hand tightened itself on Squalo's sleeve, and he could hear Xanxus choking back a sob. Squalo wrapped his arms tighter around Xanxus and just let him shed some tears, let him be overcome with a wave of blood-red hurt, let him be held and comforted by words and arms that would never let him go, if only for tonight.

"I'd still be by your side."

And that was the irony of rain and sky, when Squalo let Xanxus have his one moment of frailty, when the Rain let the Sky fall to pieces.

"I promise."


End file.
